Top Ten Ways to Die Read online

  ATAC BRIEFING FOR AGENTS FRANK AND JOE HARDY

  MISSION:

  Someone is suspected of trying to murder young rock star Madison Vee. You must stop her killer before her killer stops her.

  LOCATION:

  Los Angeles, CA.

  POTENTIAL VICTIMS:

  Aside from Ms. Vee, any number of crew members, fans, and friends.

  SUSPECTS:

  Her agent, jealous relatives .. . Ms. Vee has no shortage of possible hidden enemies ready to pounce. Keep your ears to the ground.

  THIS MISSION REQUIRES YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION.

  THIS MESSAGE WILL BE ERASED IN FIVE SECONDS.

  WATCH OUT FOR OUR NEXT CASE: #9: Martial Law

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  Cover designed by Lisa Vega

  Cover photo copyright © 2006 by

  Arthur Tress/Flash Photonica

  Ages 8–12

  kids.simonandschuster.com

  0206

  Rocking Out

  Joe was about to answer me when he was interrupted by an announcer’s voice on the CD. “Her name is Vee Sharp,” said the voice. “And she first hit the pop charts with her number one hit, ‘Take It from Vee.’”

  On the screen, a Top Ten music chart appeared. A tiny star twinkled in the number one spot, then exploded into a huge starburst.

  “Today,” the voice continued, “Vee Sharp is one of the hottest young stars on the music scene.”

  Vee’s beautiful face filled the screen.

  “But it’s hard to stay on top in the record business. Especially for someone like Vee Sharp. In spite of topping the charts with her hit songs and albums, Vee is in danger of having her career cut short.”

  Suddenly the music stopped. A giant red bull’s-eye framed Vee’s face.

  “Because someone is trying to kill her.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition February 2006 Copyright © 2006 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Designed by Lisa Vega The text of this book was set in Aldine 401BT.

  THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES and HARDY BOYS UNDERCOVER BROTHERS are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2005903791

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-0846-3

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-0846-3

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-6516-9

  1. Weenies on Wheels

  2. Top Ten Ways to Die

  3. Snap, Crackle, Pop Star

  4. Hooray for Hollywood

  5. Spider Attack!

  6. Sink or Swim

  7. Girl Under Glass

  8. Die, Sister, Die!

  9. Night Stalkers

  10. Boys Behind Bars

  11. Poison Pen

  12. Into the Lion’s Den

  13. Claws of Death

  14. Cut!

  15. A Very Bad Sign

  16. The Big Chase Scene

  17. Another Hollywood Ending

  1.

  Weenies on Wheels

  “Would you like relish with that?”

  I pulled the steel tongs out of my apron pocket and plucked a plump pink wiener out of the steaming vat of water.

  “Just a smear of mustard with a few dabs of ketchup,” said the businessman, glancing at his watch. “And make it fast, kid.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  It was bad enough that I was standing in the middle of Times Square wearing a stupid wiener-shaped hat and Rollerblades. It was even worse dealing with cranky New Yorkers and picky tourists.

  “Here you go, sir. That’ll be a dollar twenty-five.”

  The businessman blinked his eyes. “A dollar twenty-five? When did the price go up?”

  My brother Frank pointed at the sign on the side of the street vendor cart. “The price is listed right here, sir,” he said with a polite smile. “And it’s worth every penny. You can’t buy a better hot dog than Weenies on Wheels. We use only the finest meat products. Absolutely no fillers.”

  I looked at my brother—in his dorky hot-dog hat—and started laughing. I just couldn’t help myself.

  The businessman was not amused.

  “It’s a rip-off, kid.”

  He thrust the hot dog at me and stormed off.

  I looked at Frank and held up the wiener. A thick glob of mustard dripped onto the sidewalk.

  “Hungry?”

  My brother scoffed. “After today, I don’t think I’ll ever eat a hot dog again.”

  “I’m with you, bro.”

  I gave him a little shove that sent him rolling backward.

  Then someone screamed.

  Loud.

  “Help! HELP!”

  Frank and I spun around on our Rollerblades.

  Across the crowded sidewalk, a young woman with long dark hair stood screaming in front of an automated teller machine. She clutched a wad of twenty-dollar bills in her hand and shook her head back and forth.

  “No! You can’t have it! Get away!”

  She struggled against her attackers—three teenage boys wearing black knit caps and Rollerblades.

  “It’s them, Joe,” Frank whispered. “The ATM Rollers.”

  I recognized them instantly from the hidden-camera footage the ATAC team had sent us. The ATM Rollers had been terrorizing New Yorkers for weeks, targeting victims at cash machines in the Times Square area. Our mission was simple: go undercover, blend into the crowd, and keep an eye on the bank machines.

  Frank and I were totally psyched about the assignment. It was our chance to hunt down criminals in the streets of New York.

  How cool is that?

  Then we got a look at the Weenies on Wheels wagon and the ridiculous hot-dog hats we had to wear.

  Not so cool.

  Hey, at least we were wearing Rollerblades.

  And we were ready to roll.

  “Freeze!” I yelled across the sidewalk at the thieves. “You’re under arrest!”

  The boys looked up and saw Frank and me blading toward them.

  “Run for it!” shouted the tallest boy.

  The three robbers released the girl—and took off down the sidewalk.

  The chase was on.

  Frank and I dug our Rollerblades into the concrete and zoomed off after them. Weaving back and forth, we made our way through a pack of stunned pedestrians. A woman with a baby carriage shrieked as I rolled toward her. With a fast twist, I swerved around them.

  And smashed into a guy selling newspapers.

  The man toppled backward, tossing an armload of New York Posts up into the air. One of the pages slapped me in the face, blocking my vision. I shook it off as quickly as I could. Then I skidded to a stop and looked around.

  Where did they go?

  The ATM Rollers were nowhere in sight. I glanced down Broadway, but all I could see was a mob of tourists in a long ticket line.

  “Joe! This way!” my brother shouted.

  Frank waved at me from across the street. Without skipping a beat, I charged after him—right into the middle of traffic.

  Honk!


  A yellow cab screeched to a halt. The front fender grazed my knee, almost knocking me down. Then a bearded cab driver stuck his head out the window and started shaking his fist at me.

  “You idiot! Watch where you’re going!”

  “Sorry!” I shouted back.

  Cars started beeping their horns at me. Traffic was backed up for blocks. Ducking down, I raced across the street and hopped up onto the sidewalk.

  “Come on, Joe!” Frank yelled. “They’re getting away!”

  He pointed down Broadway. I caught a glimpse of the robbers’ black knit caps as they bobbed and weaved through the crowds.

  We took off after them.

  Side by side we raced past tourists and street vendors, fire hydrants and parking meters, movie theaters and electronics stores. Faster and faster, closer and closer, we zoomed after our targets.

  One of the robbers glanced over his shoulder and spotted us. His eyes widened as he realized how close we were. Then he did something that almost stopped us in our tracks.

  He spun around and braced himself against a street vendor’s table full of New York City souvenirs. With a loud grunt, he flipped the whole thing over.

  “Here you go, wieners!” he shouted. “Stop and shop!”

  Dozens of souvenirs crashed and clattered across the sidewalk: Manhattan skyline snow globes, Empire State Building thermometers, “I ♥ NY” T-shirts, and green Statue of Liberty hats.

  “Look out!” Frank yelled.

  We roller-bladed straight toward the pile of junk—at top speed.

  Oh, no.

  “Jump!” I hollered.

  Frank and I jumped—up, up, and over—soaring through the air while onlookers screamed and cheered. The sidewalk was a blur beneath me, and I braced myself for a hard landing.

  Crunch! Thump!

  We made it.

  But when I looked up, I saw the robbers skate around the corner onto Forty-second Street and disappear. Frank and I raced after them.

  “Where did they go?” my brother asked.

  “Down there!”

  I pointed at the subway entrance.

  And took off down the stairs.

  “Easy, Joe!” Frank yelled.

  It was too late to stop now.

  K-thunk, k-thunk, k-thunk!

  Our Rollerblades rattled down the stairs, banging hard with each step. I had to grab the handrail a couple of times to keep from bouncing off balance.

  “Auuuugh!”

  A little old lady shrieked as we bobbled past her. She even swung her purse at Frank but missed him.

  When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we had to stop to let our eyes adjust to the darkness of the terminal. It didn’t take us long to spot the ATM Rollers.

  They were jumping the turnstiles and heading for the nearest train platform.

  “After them!” Frank shouted.

  Easier said than done. It was rush hour, after all, and the place was crawling with commuters. People rushed back and forth, blocking our path.

  To make matters worse, I was still holding the hot dog. But I wasn’t going to rush something as delicious as a hot dog.

  Finally we managed to slip inside one of the exit gates, fighting our way through the crowd like salmon swimming upstream. I had to hold the hot dog against my apron so I wouldn’t smear people with mustard and ketchup.

  Within seconds we reached the platform.

  “There they are,” said Frank.

  The three roller-bladers stood about fifty feet away, surrounded by the rush hour mob.

  “We got them cornered,” I said.

  But I spoke too soon.

  A subway train roared down the track, its brakes screeching as it stopped along the platform. Then the train doors slid open, and people started climbing aboard.

  “We’re going to lose them,” said Frank.

  “No, we’re not.”

  I pushed Frank into one of the subway cars. The doors shut behind us, and the train started to move.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Excuse me, sir.”

  Slowly we crept our way toward the front of the car, careful not to roll across anyone’s toes. Suddenly, without warning, the train slammed on its brakes. We rolled and pitched forward, grabbing the handrails for support.

  “Hold on!”

  The train pulled in to another stop. The doors slid open, and Frank grabbed my arm.

  “They’re getting out! Come on!”

  I rolled after my brother onto the platform. I could see the ATM Rollers heading for the nearest stairway. We tried to race after them, but they were just too fast.

  I was almost ready to give up. The three robbers were too far ahead of us. We’d never catch up.

  But I was forgetting something: It’s really hard to climb stairs in Rollerblades.

  Ha!

  The three boys had to turn their bodies and navigate each step sideways. It was pretty slow going.

  And it was our last chance to stop them.

  I lifted up the dripping hot dog—and hurled it as hard as I could.

  It landed with a loud splat on one of the stairs.

  And it tripped one of the robbers.

  The boy yelped as his foot flew out from under him. Then he collapsed and slid down the stairs.

  “Way to go, Joe!”

  Frank cheered. Then he reached into his apron and grabbed his metal hot-dog tongs. With a quick toss, he sent the utensil flying through the air. It crashed with a metal clang into the Rollerblades of the second boy, who stumbled and fell.

  Two down, one to go.

  Frank and I reached the bottom of the stairs—and the third thief had almost reached the top. Quickly, I ripped off my Weenies on Wheels apron. Then, swinging it in the air like a lasso, I threw the garment at the guy’s left Rollerblade.

  The apron strings caught on one of his wheels.

  Yes!

  And the boy came tumbling down.

  “Nice one, bro,” said Frank.

  The ATM Rollers lay on the concrete stairs, groaning and rubbing their bruises.

  “Nobody move!”

  Frank and I looked up. A pair of transit cops stood at the top of the stairs. One of them pointed at the fallen roller-bladers.

  “Look! It’s the ATM Rollers!” he said to his partner.

  The two cops reached for their handcuffs and started helping the boys to their feet.

  Frank nudged me with his arm. “Let’s get out of here before they start asking questions.”

  “Good idea.”

  Then, spinning around, we zoomed off down the platform. It was time to call the ATAC team and give them our report.

  Mission accomplished.

  But there was still one thing we had to do first: dump our dopey hot-dog hats into the nearest trash can.

  2.

  Top Ten Ways to Die

  Okay. So we survived a high-speed roller blade chase through Times Square. Cool.

  Now it was time to start acting like normal teenagers—or Mom and Aunt Trudy might get suspicious.

  “That was so awesome, Frank,” my brother said as we pulled our motorcycles into the driveway. “I still can’t believe we jumped over all those souvenirs on the sidewalk. It must have been an eight-foot jump! At least!”

  I pulled off my helmet and smiled. “Definitely awesome, Joe,” I agreed. “Now it’s time to chill out—and get our stories straight. We were in New York City to see the Vee Sharp concert. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  We climbed off our bikes and walked through the front door—just in time to see the evening news on TV. Mom, Dad, and Aunt Trudy were glued to the set.

  “The ATM Rollers are now safely behind bars,” said a woman reporter. “But the police still don’t know the identities of the heroic street vendors who chased them down. Thanks to these two mystery men on wheels, Times Square is a safer place to see a show, ride a subway, or grab a hot dog . . . with or without relish. This is Connie Kung reporting.”

  T
he reporter took a bite of a frankfurter and saluted the camera.

  Dad looked up and winked at Joe and me.

  As founder of American Teens Against Crime, he knew about our latest mission. And as a former cop, he knew how dangerous the mission could have been. That wink let us know that he was proud of us—without letting Mom and Aunt Trudy in on our little secret. “Frank! Joe! You’re home!” said Mom with a smile.

  Aunt Trudy glanced up from her knitting. “So how was the concert, boys?” she asked. “Did you enjoy Dee Sharp?”

  “Vee Sharp,” I corrected her. “And yes, she put on an amazing show.”

  Aunt Trudy straightened her glasses. “Really? I was reading about her in one of those magazines at the beauty parlor. It said she lip-synchs.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe during some of the big dance numbers.”

  Aunt Trudy shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I just don’t understand music today. It seems like nobody can really sing. It’s all faked in the studio. These so-called ‘singers’ just move their mouths with the music during their concerts. It’s shameful. Now, in my day . . .”

  Ding.

  Saved by the doorbell.

  “I’ll get it.” Joe walked over to the door and opened it.

  A deliveryman stood in the doorway holding a medium-size box. “Package for Frank and Joe Hardy. Sign here, please.”

  Joe signed the paper on the man’s clipboard and accepted the package. Then he thanked the delivery-man and shut the door.

  Aunt Trudy put down her knitting and walked over to investigate. “What’s this?” she asked, squinting through her glasses.

  You could say she’s a bit of a snoop. I guess it must run in the family.

  Joe held up the package. The sides were covered with silhouettes of CDs and musical notes. “It’s from the Top Ten Music Club,” he said, reading the return address on the label.

  “Send it back.”

  It was Mom. She had come up behind us and now glared down at the package with a disapproving look.